


that's why, darling, it's incredible

by orphan_account



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Domestic, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Percival's name is Alastair, Undercover as a Couple, seeing as that's what i've always gone with
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-25
Updated: 2016-09-25
Packaged: 2018-08-17 03:55:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8129518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: When he really thought about it, Alastair knew it was certainly not the worst (or at least the most undesirable) thing that he had been asked to do as part of his job. He’d tortured and been tortured, killed and maimed all in the name of his country and its protection. It was, at the very least, an occupational hazard and nothing short of what he had expected going into the job. Perhaps that was the reason why he took such an opposition to his new assignment.





	

**Author's Note:**

> hey it's me! i haven't written in nearly a year. anyway, i still love percilot so here we are. please point out if anything is wrong? i've literally just finished editing this and it's 3am so there are probably mistakes - please point them out!! anyway this idea has been kicking around my head for quite a while. also this is unrelated to my other percilot fic? i used the same names and dog name/breeds but that's it. also there's less of a humour focus in this one bc that's what i didn't like about my last one.
> 
> in terms of warnings? there's not really much to say. some sexual references, not a great deal of swearing, moderate violence/torture towards the end but that's about it.
> 
> also i may have got an a in gcse french but that doesn't mean i'm any good at it so sorry for any mistakes in the brief french bit

When he really thought about it, Alastair knew it was certainly not the worst (or at least the most undesirable) thing that he had been asked to do as part of his job. He’d tortured and been tortured, killed and maimed all in the name of his country and its protection. It was, at the very least, an occupational hazard and nothing short of what he had expected going into the job. Perhaps that was the reason why he took such an opposition to his new assignment.

“ _What?_ ” Alastair exclaimed, side-eyeing a smirking James sitting to his right at the table the three of them sat around.

Merlin pinched his brow in that long-suffering way he does every time he has to speak to both Alastair and James together at once. “You two are going undercover together as a couple.”

“Why us? Shouldn’t you pick two agents who actually have some sort of,” he gestured vaguely, “romantic chemistry?”

James’ head snapped around, his brows knitted together into a frown. “We have great chemistry.”

Merlin looked up from his clipboard. “Alastair, you know how much I hate to agree with James, but it’s true,” he said. “Just about everyone who works here already think you’re a couple.”

Alastair felt like he was going to have an embolism. “What? Why?”

“I mean we kind of are,” James said.

“No, we’re not.”

“You look after each other’s dogs, you’ve spent at least the last what? Five Christmases together? You buy your weekly food shop _together_ , you bicker all the time and about 60% of those arguments are about your finances or dinner,” Merlin listed. “And you two have the best statistics in Kingsman for assignments with more than one agent.”

“Told you we had great chemistry,” James grinned at Alastair. “We’re like Ross and Rachel, Harry and Sally, Turner and Hooch!”

“Turner and Hooch weren’t a couple! That was Tom Hanks and a dog!”

James opened his mouth to retort and Alastair saw out the corner of his eye Merlin wincing and letting out a long, quiet sigh. “Now is not the time for this,” Merlin said, “I’m trying to brief you.”

James closed his mouth and gestured to Merlin with an open palm. “Continue.”

“As this may be a long-term operation and will be operating in London, we’ve decided it would be safest for you both to use your real first names so that in the eventuality that you run into someone you know, the risk of breaking cover would be minimised,” Merlin explained before pushing two files across the table, their names printed at the top right of the mottled brown folder. He waited for them to open the files before pointing at James. “James Barnes, aged thirty-three. Architect, employed by Gemco Limited, studied architecture at University College London. Originally from Plymouth, you now live in Bromley with,” Merlin turned pages and signalled to Alastair’s folder.

“Alastair McMillan,” Alastair read out loud.

Merlin nodded. “Alastair McMillan, aged thirty-two, transition manager for Pro Yard Services. Master’s in Business and Management from St Andrews, originally from Derby,” Merlin finished listing. “You should find additional details in your files. You also have a copy of each other’s details. Make sure you know them both in and out,” he said. “Now if you turn to page three you should see your mark.”

The man on the page was likely around forty – forty-one, Alastair noted as his eyes scanned down the page. He was charming-looking; mid-length wavy brown hair with greying edges, bright blue eyes framed by rounded glasses and a brilliantly white smile.

“This is Mike Bradley,” Merlin said. “Accountant at PwC. It’s suspected that he’s been embezzling money for about three years, but no one can trace it back to him securely.”

“Property crime?” James frowned. “We don’t usually do that.”

“You’re right. The reason we are involved in this is that Mr Bradley appears to be involved with cyber-crime, in particular the hacking of government servers,” he explained before pushing across several images from security cameras, the dates at the bottom of the photos giving a date from two weeks previous. They were black and white and poorly lit, clearly taken at night, of their mark ushering various people into his house. Only one of their faces could be seen. “This is Brie Pichette. She has various connections to the HLM crime lords. We can only assume that whatever he’s found, he’s looking at selling, whether this is weapons information or something else, if that’s why she’s here at all.”

The next images pushed across the table were significantly less grainy, taken in colour at a low angle through a window. Two figures – Bradley and Pichette – lit by the warm yellow of the room, were in what could only be described as incriminating positions.

“Learn to shut the curtains,” James muttered as he pulled them closer.

Merlin placed more photographs atop them. Bradley and Pichette, walking together down the street and looking particularly ‘couple-y’.

“We sent one of our investigators to case them and this is what she brought back,” he said. “We need you to work out what’s been taken, what they’re up to, who’s coming to the house and ultimately retrieve the information, and if necessary, dispose of Bradley and Pichette, although we would prefer to arrest them.”

“Why do you need us to be a couple for this?” Alastair asked.

Merlin leant back in his seat. “It looks like they’ve been inviting round many local couples, probably in an attempt to look normal. Additionally, the area itself is not one where people generally live with a flatmate. It’s also a large operation with an indefinite crime scale, and assigning two agents to the case would be the safest option. I’d rather not be toasting either of you with the rest of the Kingsmen.”

They both nodded.

James broke out into a grin and looked at Alastair. “Let’s go learn our files, babe,” he said cheerfully.

Alastair stared directly into Merlin’s eyes with a look that said, _I am going to kill him and it’s entirely your fault_.

Merlin stared back with a look that said, _the non-vocal conversation thing is yours and James’ thing and I can’t understand what your expressions mean_.

*

The house was much nicer than either of them had expected when they arrived in the evening two days after their briefing. It was next door to Mike Bradley’s, chosen solely because of its proximity, so it was a pleasant surprise. The white fronted house faced onto a short drive and a small patch of grass likely marketed as a front garden. They stepped out of their silver Volkswagen people carrier, letting their dogs – James’ German Shepherd, Oliver, and Alastair’s Borzoi, Madeline – out of the car and grabbing their suitcases and bringing them to the front door.

Kingsman had already sent a moving truck the day before, shifting in various pieces of furniture and personal belongings.

“I’ve never bought a house before,” James said.

“You haven’t bought this one either,” Alastair commented.

James hushed him. “Let me live in the moment, Al.”

Alastair simply rolled his eyes and pulled the key out of his pocket before getting the dogs in and pulling his bags in. The house opened into a hallway, which in turn had the staircase in. Alastair walked briefly through the house and checked for bugs as James marvelled at the concept of owning property. There was a nice, modern kitchen to the left of the hallway, a warmly coloured living room to the right. A toilet under the stairs, and office just beyond that, with large double doors opening onto a pretty decently sized garden. Upstairs, the master bedroom, a guest bedroom and a bathroom.

“I feel like I’m on Location, Location, Location,” James called from the bottom of the stairs. “Do you want me to cook dinner?”

Alastair returned downstairs quickly to prevent the disaster that was James’ cooking. “James, you can’t cook. You live on takeaways.”

“You’ve eaten my cakes! They’re good,” James protested, beginning to rummage through the cupboards for food.

“That’s baking, James. You can bake, not cook. Cake is not a meal,” he replied, sidling up next to James before promptly pushing him out the way of the cupboard with his own body, retrieving some rice.

James crossed his arms and sat at the table, sulkily watching Alastair go on to get out an onion, some garlic, mushrooms and a stock cube. “Did Kingsman buy us food?”

“No, I told them to take what was in my cupboards,” Alastair said, pulling out a chopping board and a large knife. “That way I knew we’d actually have a possible meal for the evening,” he said, beginning to chop the ingredients. “If you sit on the counter to the left you can look out the window at the front of the house and look at Bradley’s house,” Alastair remarked, not looking away from what he was doing.

James stood up and sat up on the counter. “We need to buy a radio,” he remarked. “Did you check for,” he paused a second, trying to think of what to say, “ants?”

“Ants?” Alastair asked incredulously, looking up briefly to shoot James a harsh look.

“Creepy-crawlies. Insects,” James said, but upon seeing the Alastair wasn’t understanding him, he turned the tap that was next to him on. “Bugs.”

“Oh,” Alastair replied. “Um, yeah, we’re clear,” he said, putting the kettle on and grabbing a pan from a draw.

James switched the tap off. “Wouldn’t want to blow our cover on the first night. We need to get a radio. Not only because Merlin told us to be extra careful but also for some banging tunes.”

Alastair didn’t reply, instead pouring now boiled water into a jug and breaking the stock cube into it.

“What are you making?” James asked, realising he had no clue what was happening.

“Risotto,” Alastair replied, pouring some of the stock into the saucepan and adding the rest of the chopped ingredients, beginning stirring. He turned to look at James as he stirred. “Can you see anything going on?”

James glanced at the house, the light on in one of the rooms downstairs. He could just about make out the TV, which faced towards part of the room he couldn’t see. “Casualty’s on,” he said. “That’s all I can see. They’re both there though, I can just about make out their reflections on the TV.”

Alastair nodded, adding more stock to the pan, which sizzled in the heat and sent off more steam. Alastair wiped his glasses with his sleeve. “Could you grab some plates?”

James did so, laying the table and putting out a couple of wine glasses. He retrieved a bottle of red wine from the bottle rack they had on the counter. He popped the cork open and began pouring the wine as Alastair served up the risotto. They both took their seats.

“To us,” James said, raising his glass in Alastair’s direction. “Come on, we’ve just moved in together.”

Alastair reluctantly picked up his own glass and clinked it against James’ before taking a sip. “That’s not great.”

“How dare you?” he replied, reading the label. “It’s Sainsbury’s own brand.”

“Explains it,” he said.

They ate their meals in a comfortable silence, James quietly impressed with Alastair’s actually-pretty-good cooking. They finished their risotto, and their disgusting wine, and Alastair stood to take the plates. James stopped him.

“You cook, I’ll clean,” he said. “That’s what my parents did.”

“We’re not your parents. We’re not a couple, James,” Alastair frowned, as if he expected James to be tricking him somehow. “We’re not dating, we don’t sleep together.”

“I’m hurt,” he replied, good-naturedly, stacking the plates and putting them in the dishwasher. “We might be here a while and I don’t want you doing everything because you don’t trust me to do basic tasks. I’m an international spy, you know. I’m very capable.”

“As a spy, yes, I agree,” Alastair replied. “But James, you are a bit of an idiot,” he stopped. “I mean that in the nicest possible way.”

James shrugged. “Fair enough.”

They were interrupted by the tinny ring of a mobile. “That’s me,” Alastair said as he pulled out his phone. “It’s Merlin,” he said as he put the phone to his ear.”

_“Percival, how are you?”_

“We’re good, settled in, no bugs. Bradley and Pichette are at home with no suspicious activity.”

_“Good.”_

Alastair was silent for a moment. “Is there anything in particular, Merlin?”

Merlin sighed down the line. _“You need to be really careful. We only get one shot at this. They’ll probably leave the country if they suspect anything and there’s a good chance it’ll be too late to stop them by the time we find them again.”_

“What do you suggest?”

_“Work quickly, try to wrap up this whole thing up in a couple of weeks. And don’t let anyone suspect you’re there for them. They might put surveillance out on you. Don’t get rid of bugs if you find any, check every night, sleep in the same bed.”_

Alastair cleared his throat. “Okay. Anything else?”

_“Don’t think so. Good night, both of you. Don’t die.”_

“Thanks for the advice, Merlin,” he replied. “Night.”

He put the phone down and James sat back down opposite him.

“What did he say?”

“Stay safe, work fast, check for bugs every night, sleep in the same bed, don’t get rid of said bugs if we find any,” Alastair listed.

There was a beat as James ran through what Alastair relayed to him. “Hey, if being a couple means dating and sleeping together, then we’ll already be half-way there,” he said with a smile before getting back up and heading to the living room.

Alastair just sat at the table and groaned.

*

The next couple of days were predominantly uneventful. No one came to the house apart from the postman, Bradley and Pichette both coming and going at different times. Alastair had run into Pichette a couple of times as they passed each other on a run in the morning, and she had offered a nod when he’d passed her with both the dogs at his side. James had run into Bradley in the Tesco’s Express, receiving a smile as they passed each other in the wine aisle.

Nothing interesting had happened in their own house either, apart from a new radio and a spooning incident.

Alastair had woken up in the middle of the night for no particular reason at all, to find James’ arms wrapped tightly around his abdomen and their feet entwined together. It was mid-autumn, and Alastair surprised himself by being wholly _okay_ with what was happening, and not just okay, actually _enjoying_ it. The thought made him want to shove the other man off him, but he realised quickly that that would mean waking him, which not only meant they’d both know about it, but also that he’d suddenly get considerably colder. He let himself drift back off to sleep, feeling James’ breath lightly tickle the back of his nice and trying to ignore the feeling of security he found in his friend and colleague’s arms.

The next day, James didn’t say anything, which Alastair remarked was either because when he woke he had already unwrapped himself unconsciously, or James was as embarrassed as he was.

“We need to get friendly with them somehow,” James said out of the blue.

Alastair, who was typing his log report of the past couple of days at the kitchen table, looked up at him. “That’s true, but what?”

James shrugged. “Invite them for dinner.”

“Don’t invite them for dinner,” Alastair replied unhappily. “I’m not cooking for them.”

“I can’t just sit around here and do nothing,” James replied.

“Yes, you can,” Alastair replied before pushing his chair back from the table and gesturing widely with his arms. “Look at me!”

“I’m going to bake them some brownies,” he decided.

Alastair pulled his chair back in. “What?”

James shrugged. “Initiate contact. Try to get us invited over. Do we have any nice wine?”

“Yeah, I bought a nice Pinot Noir the other day,” he said, looking back at his laptop.

James did bake his brownies, offering Alastair the mixing bowl after he’d finished, then when it was declined sat at the table on the edge of the seat staring at the oven as he ate the mix. The timer beeped a good while later, by which time the bowl was completely free of mixture, and James took out the brownies, placing them on the side. He cut them up, offering one to Alastair. Alastair took a bite of one and looked at James with vague surprise.

“You know, that’s better than I thought it would be,” Alastair offered.

“From you, that’s a great compliment,” he replied as he placed them into a plastic container. The plastic steamed up from the heat. “I’ll be back soon,” he said as he left the room.

“Bye,” came Alastair’s distracted response.

James walked out the door and headed to their mark’s home, walking up the path to the door and rapping on it with his knuckles. He heard the sound of someone walking down the stairs and a moment later the door opened, revealing Mike Bradley with a suspicious expression. The expression broke into a friendly one as soon as the man connected just who James was.

“Hi!” James greeted with the most charming smile he could muster. “I’m James, I just moved in next door with my partner. We don’t really know anyone around here, so I figured I could introduce myself. I made you and your,” he squinted, trying to make out like he didn’t know the nature of, or at least what they were portraying, Bradley and Pichette’s relationship. “girlfriend?” Bradley nodded slightly. “I made you brownies,” he offered the container to him.

“Hello, neighbour,” Bradley took them with a smile. “Would you like to come in for a tea?” he said. He was softly spoken, relatively posh-sounding too.

James smiled back and entered the house, before being lead to the kitchen and offered a seat at their table.

Bradley began making tea and getting a couple of mugs out. “I’m Mike, my girlfriend’s name is Brie,” he said. “I saw we had new neighbours. I was actually going to go to see you soon, but clearly you beat me to it. What’s your partner’s name?”

“Alastair,” James said. “We’ve been meaning to move out of our flat in the inner city for a while now. We can get far more for our money out here. Have you two been here long?”

“I’ve been living here for about three years,” he said. “Brie’s been living with me for a couple of weeks.”

No lie yet, James noticed, although he did pick up on the fact that he didn’t mention how long he and Pichette had been seeing each other. Bradley placed the tea in front of him before sitting down on the other side of the table with his own. “Lovely, thank you,” he said, taking a sip. “So what do you do?”

“I’m an accountant,” Bradley said. “Dull, I know. Brie’s a systems analyst. What about you?”

“Architect,” he said. Bradley nodded. “Alastair’s a transition manager, whatever that means.”

Bradley laughed good-naturedly. “If it’s any consolation, I have no clue what a systems analyst is.”

They talked for a while and James had to keep reminding himself that the man he was talking to wasn’t as nice as he was coming across. He had always hate cases wherein the mark had been nice. It rubbed him up the wrong way, especially when, and James had read Bradley’s file fully, the mark was a suspect in three cold-case murder investigations.

“Would you and Alastair like to come here for dinner tonight? Brie should be here, I’m cooking lasagne.”

“That’d be wonderful, thank you very much Mike,” James said with a grin before parting ways with Mike and heading back home.

He entered the house in a much better mood than he left in, walking into the kitchen with a big smile. He held out both arms. “Who’s great?” he asked Alastair, who was still sat at the table typing, glasses perched on the bottom of his nose.

Alastair didn’t even look up. “I’m assuming you?”

“We’re going to dinner with our mark tonight,” he let his arms fall back to his side. Alastair looked up with a rare smile on his face. “I’m also going to cook us lunch right now to celebrate.”

The smile fell off of Alastair’s face. “God, James, please don’t.”

“It’s only simple, don’t worry,” James said, getting a box Alastair couldn’t make out from the cupboard. “I’m making Cup-a-Soup with a twist.”

“James, what’s the twist?” Alastair asked with apprehension.

“It’s a Cup-a-Soup with a twist,” James said again.

Alastair glared. “James.”

“I can’t tell you the twist,” he said. “It’s like a surprise.”

“ _James_ ,” Alastair stressed.

“It’s in a bowl and not a cup,” he replied.

James received no reply, the only response being Alastair’s now amplified typing as he hit the keys harder. He held back the amused smile that came to his face.

*

They showed up to dinner at six o’clock that evening, James with one hand grasping the Pinot Noir Alastair had bought previously and the other around Alastair’s waist, the feeling of that touch somehow _enthralling_ to him, a feeling that he immediately chose to ignore. They were greeted by Mike, who let them both in and took them to the kitchen before pouring four glasses of white wine and thanking them for the bottle of red they’d bought. As soon as they had picked up their glasses, Pichette entered and picked up her own.

Brie Pichette was, James realised, very good-looking and he quickly came to the conclusion that she was _way_ out of Mike Bradley’s league. She took a sip of her wine before walking over and greeting them both with a strong French accent.

The meal was nice enough, Mike clearly a capable cook. James fingered the bugs he had in his pocket and discreetly stuck one to the bottom of the table, at the edge where it couldn’t easily be found without someone looking for it specifically. He briefly glanced at Alastair, who nodded, before standing up.

“Could I ask where your loo is?” he said.

“Yes, it’s upstairs at the end of the corridor,” Mike replied.

James nodded in thanks before heading out the room and going upstairs. He glanced in every room he passed down the corridor, before coming across a room with a King-sized bed, recognising the wallpaper from the photographs they had been shown in the briefing.

He looked behind him to check he was alone, before entering the room and brushing his hand under the top of various draws, aiming to find a good placement for another bug. Once he decided the best place for it, he stuck the bug under the rim of a set of draws opposite the foot of the bed, before leaving and returning to the kitchen.

They all sat and spoke for some time after that, drinking wine and discussing everything from their personal lives to the George Bush presidency.

Alastair and James left soon after they finished the wine. They bid good night to their marks and returned back to the house, Alastair immediately setting up his laptop and the various receivers they had for the wires. James switched on the receivers, getting them in tune until the words spoken and sounds of Bradley and Pichette pottering around the room could be heard.

They didn’t talk much for the rest of the evening, but soon went to bed. There was some rustling of covers, then Pichette saying “no, I am too tired,” quietly, then a sigh and more rustling.

Eventually, a quiet snoring arose and that was it for quite a while, before there was another swish of covers as someone stood. James could just about make out the sound of a flip phone opening. Pichette spoke in a hushed voice.

“ _Oui, je suis ici,_ ” she paused. “ _Il dort_ ,” more silence. “ _Je ne pense pas qu’ils sont un probl_ _è_ _me, l’un d’eux est un architecte est l’autre un gestionnaire. Inoffensif,_ ” there was another pause. “ _Oui, je vais y aller demain. Je vais les vérifier et laisser un dispositif._ ” More silence, again. “ _Je vous verrai bientôt, au revoir._ ”

The phone was flipped shut and there was another rustle of covers. A short time after, they were both satisfied that she too had gone to sleep.

James looked to Alastair, who had been typing the words as she said them and also knew better French than he did. “Could you read that again in English?” he asked.

Alastair nodded. “’Yes, I’m here’, then there’s a pause. ‘He’s sleeping’, pause, ‘I don’t think they’re a problem, one’s an architect and the other is a manager, harmless’,” he stopped to scroll. “’Yes, I’ll go there tomorrow. I’ll check and leave a bug,’ another pause, ‘I’ll see you soon, goodbye,’” he finished. “That’s it.”

“So she’s coming round tomorrow to bug us?” James asked.

Alastair nodded again. “And we’re going to let her.”

*

Sure enough, Pichette showed up at around 9am, asking if they had any flour. James told her yes, inviting her in for tea as Bradley had done that day before. She too asked to use the toilet and he directed her to the upstairs one, allowing her to do exactly what she came for. Any interference would lead to suspicion and endanger their cover. She left pretty quickly after she returned downstairs, thanking him for the tea and a great evening. He nodded and said goodbye.

Alastair returned from the shop with food an hour or so later, stopping in the doorway and looking from James to their neighbour’s as if that was a question. James nodded in return, and Alastair shut the door behind him. He kissed James on the cheek, “Hey love,” and placed the plastic bags down on the counter. He retrieved two large notepads from his bag and handed one to James along with a pen, before beginning to write in his own.

 _Act_ , he wrote, the instruction written in capital letters and underlined it several times. “I was thinking I should make a quiche tonight,” he said, holding up the notepad, which read, _Where?_

“Oh, nice,” James replied, scribbling on his paper. “You made one before?” Alastair tried to look over the top of the notepad, noticing James was taking inordinately long, but James angled it away and glared at him.  _Kitchen, bedroom, probably other places too_ , it read, and also had a drawing of a dragon in the corner.

“No, thought it’d be a nice change seeing as I’m on top of my work,” Alastair shot James a glance that said  _be sensible_ , before setting down his notepad and beginning to unpack the bags of food and put it away. He also produced a box from the bag. A digital radio. “Could you try and get that working?”

James picked it up. “Yeah, sure.”

The next couple of days came and went. They took to listening to the bugs they had planted themselves with headphones, texting Merlin to make sure that the different signals wouldn’t interfere. All calls were made in the car and the both of them fell into a surprisingly normal-feeling routine of telling each other they loved them when leaving or entering the house. All discussions about the case were no longer verbal, only written. And of course, there were the obligatory fake sex noises they made on the nights, similar to the ones they had heard themselves over the bugs they had placed with Bradley and Pichette. Alastair sat on the floor at the end of the bed, typing something work related, as James stood and bounced on the bed, each of them alternating in grunts, before they stopped and both returned to bed to sleep.

It wasn’t until the following evening something worthwhile happened. Alastair had been listening absentmindedly to Bradley and Pichette’s conversation as he worked, but redirected his focus as he began to listen more closely. “James!” he called. He heard his voice echo quietly in the background.

James entered the room moments later and put on the second pair of headphones.

 _“Why am I only allowed one copy of the plans?”_  Bradley asked.

Pichette huffed. _“Because Monsieur Devereux does not want you to sell them to anyone else.”_

_“Why? It’s not like him not being the only one with the details of how to build bombs and weapons means that the plans become unusable.”_

_“No, but it means that there is a competitor to steal business. He does not want them for himself, he wants to pass it on. All other copies better be gone by tomorrow.”_

Alastair was already composing a text to Merlin. _Devereux; bomb and weapon plans; tomorrow_ , it read. He knew Merlin would know what he meant.

They listened to the rest of the conversation and soon gather that Bradley had stolen the plans of standard bombs and weaponry used by the British Army, as well as the number plate details of various Royal Mint and other expensive goods delivery vehicles, and that there would a meet up the next day, although they weren’t due to sell for a few more days.

Alastair’s phone buzzed and he read the response from Merlin. He stood up and switched the radio on, turning it up as loud as he could. _Unforgettable_ by Nat King Cole played out into the kitchen, and Alastair gestured to James to come closer. He placed James’ right hand on his back and took his other hand his own, swaying gently to the beat. He pulled the other man closer so that their heads were almost over each other’s shoulder.

“I need to talk to you properly,” he explained, voice barely above a whisper, ignoring the hitch in James’ breath and the warm feeling in his chest as they danced. “We don’t have a blind in here, they might see in.”

“Okay,” James replied quietly. “What is it?”

“Merlin wants us to move in as soon as possible. Devereux is the name of the man most believe to be the head of one of the biggest organised crime families in France. They’re suspected of drug trafficking, prostitution, armed robberies, numerous murders, torture, contract killings and arms sales. We can’t afford to let him get a hold of them.”

James nodded. “When does he want us to move in?”

“Two days from now,” Alastair replied. “We still need tomorrow’s meeting to take place so we can get photos of attendants and the details of the transaction.”

“Great,” he said. “The end is in sight.”

Alastair simply smiled, continuing to sway to the music with James. The truth was, he almost didn’t want it to be over. He and James, living together in their house with their two dogs, a surprisingly enjoyable cohabitance.

And the truth was, James didn’t either.

*

They had the cameras set up and streaming straight to Merlin just after dark, and the ‘guests’ began to arrive an hour or so later. Alastair and James sat at the table, watching the feed on the laptop and listening to the bugs at the same time, eating noodles from the takeaway place up the road and drinking Pinot Grigio straight from the same bottle, having discovered that all their glasses were in the dishwasher.

They’d both put in an earpiece, headphones shifted so that only one side covered an ear, letting Merlin relay information as the meeting unfurled. Various people with various French-sounding names had begun to arrive and get settled in the living room of the other house. Merlin listed their names as quickly as he could, things like Rousseau, Michel, Chevalier, Lacroix.

Eventually Devereux himself arrived, fashionably late. François Devereux was a weighty, moderately tall man, with a hardened face and a permanent frown, dark hair gelled back in a style reminiscent of a 50s greaser. As soon as he entered, the entire room, which had previously been a murmur of casual conversation, fell into silence.

Pichette took charge of the room, standing at the front and clearing her throat. _“We are here to receive an offer,”_ she produced an SD card from her pocket. _“Bomb and weapon plans, number plates.”_

 _“How do we know it’s genuine?”_ a man in the room asked gruffly.

Pichette took a laptop from Bradley, who looked noticeably shaky and out of place, and pulled up the details. She showed it to the room quickly, before shutting the top and handing it back. _“It is genuine,”_ she said, before tapping pushing the SD card into Bradley’s hand firmly. _“Take it to the bedroom,”_ she whispered.

The meeting was about 20% hushed whispers, 10% uncomfortable silence, 30% family drama, 20% people tutting or huffing at each other, 10% drinking coffee, 5% unnecessary speeches and 5% actual offers. It reminded James very much of family reunions, which he figured it likely partially was.

They finally settled on a figure around €500,000 for the information itself, although there seemed to be a level of interest of using Bradley as an informant. They set a time and place for the transaction for the following day, and after that the number of people there tapered off, eventually leaving Pichette and Bradley alone again. Merlin said good night to them then, and they both took their ear pieces out and continued to listen to the two of them talk.

Alastair glanced at James, watching him yawn for the third time in the last half an hour. “Go to bed,” he said firmly.

“You sound like my mum,” James told him, stifling another yawn.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said. “I’ve met her. She’s lovely, and, may I add, very sensible. Sleep. We’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

James looked at him with a look of reluctance.

“ _Go_ ,” Alastair said firmly.

He did trail off to bed then, patting Alastair on the shoulder as he left.

“Idiot,” Alastair murmured, hand dropping down to his side to stroke the top of Madeline’s head. He figured Pichette and Bradley would be going to bed soon too, then he could sleep and sift through the night’s tapes in the morning.

 _“Pack a bag,”_ Pichette said, interrupting Alastair’s thoughts. _“We should go tonight and stay in a hotel.”_

Bradley sounded as surprised as Alastair felt. _“What?”_

 _“We are sitting ducks, if word has got out then we are fucked,”_ she said. _“I am not sure I trust those new neighbours.”_

Alastair listened to what was being said with a growing worry.

 _“Why?”_ Bradley asked. _“They’re just a couple of guys.”_

_“They arrived at such a specific time. Nestled their way into our lives. And they do not argue nearly enough to be a proper couple.”_

He nearly laughed. He’d have to bring that up with Merlin later. They didn’t argue _enough_.

_“I will have to check for bugs. If I find any, they are dead. Then we get out.”_

_Shit_ , Alastair thought, standing quickly. He moved as quickly as he could, rushing out the door with the intention of stealing the SD card and either taking out Pichette and Bradley or returning and waking James.

As he ran he sent a quick text to Merlin about where he’d gone and to wake James, although he didn’t have much hope of success at a time he thought Merlin would be asleep himself. He rushed over to the side of the house, below the master bedroom window, climbing up the wall using the drainpipe as support onto the half-roof that jutted out directly beneath the window, before unhitching the ajar window and pulling himself in.

The SD card wasn’t even hidden, placed neatly on the bedside table in plain sight. He picked it up.

“What the hell are you doing?” Bradley appeared at the door angrily.

Alastair saw Pichette appear behind Bradley in the doorframe, and seeing no alternative, promptly swallowed the SD card. Bradley took that moment to charge at him, but Alastair simply threw him over his shoulder and into the set of draws behind him. Pichette followed and Alastair could tell just by her stance that she wasn’t as inexperience as Bradley was. The punch that came was unexpected, but he saw it soon enough to duck out the way. He wrapped his arms and pushed her forward in a pseudo-rugby tackle into the wall in the hallway with force, before he made an attempt to run back down the hallway.

The attempt was short lived, and Pichette was on him again almost immediately, kicking his legs out from under him. She delivered two short punches to his face before he managed to throw her off balance and get back up, throwing an elbow to her cheek as they both stood. He had reached the top of the stairs when suddenly his shirt was grabbed firmly and he was pulled around to face his assailant. He saw it coming, but couldn’t do anything to stop it, as she shoved both her hands into his chest and he fell backwards down the stairs.

He thought he probably hit his head on the first or second step, because he didn’t particularly remember the fall, only being in a heap on the floor at the bottom of the staircase, wincing at the pain and assessing the probable damage. He thought he probably had a sprained or broken ankle and possibly a couple of cracked ribs, but most of the damage was superficial. Before he could get up on his own, Alastair was pulled up by two people and dragged into a room he recognised as the kitchen. He was shoved harshly onto a chair, and hadn’t quite come round enough to resist with any real strength as his hands were zip tied to the back.

“Who are you?” Pichette asked and he looked up at her with a smile, blood clouding his vision in one eye where he thought he hit his head, seeing a bruise forming on her cheek where his elbow landed.

Bradley’s fist collided with his face, knocking him to the side. He spat out some of the blood gathering in his mouth where he had bit his cheek.

He sat back up and winced. “You know, it’s not a good tactic to hit your captive before they even speak.”

“Where you going to answer?” Bradley asked.

Alastair shrugged as much as his injured body and restraints would allow. “No,” he said, which earned him another punch. He quietly began unscrewing a screw from the chair.

Pichette grabbed a kitchen knife from the side. “You know I will just gut you to get that card.”

The screw came out. Alastair began rubbing the point against the tie. “Yeah. Figured you’d piss about a bunch first. I could wait for the cavalry.”

“Is your partner still at home?” she asked.

“No,” he lied. “Gone to get back up,” Alastair felt his hand fall free, but he kept it pressed against where it had been secured.

“You are wrong,” she said after a beat.

“Wrong?”

“I am not going to piss around,” she said, bringing the knife forward much faster than Alastair thought she would. He swung his arm out and grabbed her wrist, twisting it to break her grip of the knife. The attempt at escape, or at least at stalling, was short-lived. Bradley quickly came up from behind and twisted his hand behind his back. Alastair winced.

“You know what? Perhaps I will,” she said, taking Alastair’s wrist in a vice-like grip, offering some sort of gesture to Bradley. Alastair felt the barrel of a gun against his temple. She held his hand out and took one of his fingers with her other hand. “Do not try _anything_.”

He clenched his jaw before she even broke it, knowing what she was going to do, and when she did he squeezed his eyes shut and let out a growl against gritted teeth. At the next finger, he growled again, not wanting to give her the satisfaction of causing him a great amount of pain. At the next, another growl. Then another. She dropped his hand with a sigh. “You are no fun.”

She hit him a couple of more times before picking the knife back up. “Where were we?”

The quietness of the room was shattered by two perfect gunshots. The knife and the gun at his head fell away. James strode across the room with purpose, picking the knife up off the floor and undoing the tie on Alastair’s other hand.

“Are you okay?” he asked, their faces almost too close together.

Alastair wasn’t sure why he did what he did next. Maybe it was the pain, maybe it was the fact he’d just nearly died, maybe it was the whole situation, but he brought his good hand up to cup James’ face and drew his face even closer, pressing their lips together gently. He pulled back, a moment later, recovering himself.

James just stared at him. Alastair instantly regretted it. Had he fucked it up? Where the feelings he was feeling just his own? Was it-

“You taste like blood, are you sure you’re alright?”

“I’m fine,” he replied softly, offering a smile.

James frowned. “There’s blood coming out of your mouth.”

“It’s not blood,” he denied in a feeble attempt at making James stop worrying.

“What is it then?” James asked.

Alastair paused for a moment. “…Wine,” he settled on.

James laughed briefly, before pulling Alastair’s arm over his shoulder and helping him walk out the house. “You’re lucky there was a fox in Merlin’s bins.”

“Why?” he asked.

“Woke him up. He saw your text and called,” he replied. “Look, it would mean a lot to me if you didn’t, you know, die.”

James told him Merlin already had a clean-up crew on the way, as well as one of the Kingsman doctors, so they didn’t need to do anything. He took him back into the house and sat him on the sofa, getting some ice for his hand.

They sat on the sofa together, and James switched on the TV, putting on _Torchwood_ or something else vaguely fantastical. Alastair leant on James and James with his hand over Alastair’s shoulders.

Alastair dozed lightly. “I love you,” he murmured against James’ shirt.

“I love you too,” he replied, meaning it just as much as he had done the whole time they had been saying it as a part of their cover.

*

_Two weeks later_

There was a knock at his door and Madeline ran out to the hallway.

“Let yourself in, James,” Alastair called.

The door opened. “I come bearing gifts,” he said, entering the room, snow dusting his coat’s shoulders. He placed a large pizza on Alastair’s lap and a coffee from the coffee shop down the road. “I also have not one, not three, but two Bridget Jones films,” James added, producing the DVDs from a pocket inside his coat.

“You know, I’m not the one that loves Bridget Jones. That’s you,” Alastair said, watching James put the DVD in and taking a bite of a slice of pizza.

“Yeah, but you love me, so by extension you love Bridget Jones,” he replied before moving a footstool in front of the sofa. “Budge up.”

Alastair sighed, moving his foot onto the stool and rotating so James could slip in behind him. James’ arm fell over his chest. “You shouldn’t be ordering me around.”

James reached round and took some of the pizza. “You’re fine.”

And they were.

**Author's Note:**

> please leave kudos or comment if you liked! any constructive criticism is greatly appreciated. thank you for reading !!


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